DISCLAIMER: I don't own Gone With the Wind. Wish I did, though…

A/N: This is set after Rhett leaves, but before Melly's funeral. No plot changes have been made and this follows the book, not the film, so Ella and Wade do exist.

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It would have been like any ordinary day in the large house on Peachtree, an ostentatious home that belonged to Rhett Butler, Scarlett O'Hara Butler, Wade Hamilton, Ella Kennedy, and various other darkies who worked for the family, if it weren't for the noticeable absence of the children and their stepfather, Rhett. It would have been like any ordinary day, except, it was not.

Scarlett had woken up with her tears dried upon her face, her black mourning outfit tight and uncomfortable, and her hair still pinned up, remembering the events of the nights before. Her body shook with sobs as she buried her face in the pillows of her large and empty bed in her large and empty room in her large and empty house, never called a home.

Not since—no, she wouldn't think about Bonnie today. Not today, not when Melly—good, sweet, innocent, Melly—who had died trying to bring another baby in the world—had only passed days before. Scarlett recalled with horror little Beau, his angelic blonde curls tossing as he wailed for his mother.

The poor child didn't even know she had died yet, Scarlett knew. Ashley certainly had not told him, Aunt Pitty would faint at the notion, and no one else would have the heart, leaving the task once again, to Scarlett. It seemed in times of burden she would be the one everyone relied on.

After she had left Melly's house—how it hurt to even think about her - to hear her name, even to think her name brought such a sharp pain that her breath whittled past her teeth in a high-pitched keen.

She had wired Will in Tara to send Mammy and the children to her again; they needed to be there for their Aunt Melly's funeral and to lend their support to their cousin Beau. The children would be arriving that afternoon, holding no idea of the tragedy that had lay in store for them. They had loved Melanie as much as they loved their mother, and perhaps more. Melanie had always been there for them, even when Scarlett could not, or when she was going through a hard time. Somehow, Scarlett could not summon the rage she usually felt at the thought of her children preferring another woman to be their mother. It seemed wrong, ever so wrong. It would not do to be angry with Melly, never again. And really, Scarlett. You aren't a good mother, Melly was, why would they want to deal with your rejection when they could have herlove? So Scarlett merely swallowed the lump in her throat, and moved along. Don't think about that today.

Dressing once more in a somber black, this time actually looking and feeling the part, she gazed mournfully in the mirror. Her black curls were pulled back severely, adding years to her appearance. Her green eyes were bloodshot and underlined with dark smudges, and her skin held a sickly, unpleasant pallor. She avoided her reflection, looking no longer than necessary. For all your present ugliness, you are alive. Melly isn't. I can't think of her, pale and cold and dead.

It was almost time to leave for the station, the children needed to be picked up soon. She had missed them much more then she ever would have thought. Despite her detached way of raising them, no one could have denied the struggles and toils she faced to feed and clothe them, leaving the coddling to others. She loved her children enough to sacrifice their happiness for their health, but no one understood that. No one except Melly, of course. Even Rhett, for all his so-called understanding of her didn't understand. He'd never been in need. He didn't see Wade, dirty, hungry, crying for his mother after we were deserted on the road to Tara. He didn't see Wade when the fire threatened to kill us all, white and cold, like he was dead. He didn't see baby Ella screaming for a mother that couldn't even muster the energy to get out of bed.

She had never been ready for motherhood when it had struck her, inopportune pregnancies were her lot in life, it seemed. At seventeen she was too young and immature to be a mother, and in her early days as a mother she had no idea of how to raise a child whom was fathered by a man she had married to spite another.

She remembered nine months of new changes, painful, awkward changes that left her sick all day and tired all night. She remembered things: a couple hours of searing, ripping, tearing pain, Doctor Fontaine's mutterings that her hips were too narrow, and a silver instrument that she had cried out upon its visage, and had to be blindfolded and half drugged to consent to. Then, the relief to have the baby out; seeing a squalling, red-faced, bloody, and gooey child that had greedily sucked all that she had to give and then cried for hours anyway.

She remembered being proud of herself for birthing a boy, a healthy son, and for a moment, she recalled wishing Charles had been there, pacing outside the door, ready to reward her with a kiss, earbobs, a necklace, a reprieve, anything. But she looked down on her child and did not know what to do. She felt a sense of responsibility to be sure, but she did not feel any sort of maternal instinct, granting her instant expertise.

She had felt the same with Ella. The baby was unwanted. Everything was the same, the unpleasant sickness, the pain, the changes, her inability to carry out the simplest tasks, and then, the baby. Ella had been an ugly baby. That was certain, and Scarlett had not been proud of her homely daughter in the least. At least with Wade, she knew he would be handsome.

And then, there had been Bonnie, another difficult pregnancy, struggling to live normally, and then the baby she had lost. Afterwards she had lost all worth in her husband's eyes. She still did not understand the way Rhett had thrown her aside after being so attentive during her pregnancies, even when they were not his children. She remembered his insistence on her safety when she carried Ella. He had thrown all his attention on Bonnie; in fact, he had not even congratulated her after the birth. Even women on the street that hated her gave her more consolation than that!

But now was not the time to think of such things. Today, now, the present belonged to Melanie, not her two dead children. She regretted the lost time she had not spent with her children, and wondered not for the first time what it would have been like if she had been a better mother. Instead she had turned her children over to Melly, but now that Melly wasn't with her, she needed to take responsibility.

It had happened in Marietta. Scarlett had become much closer to her children. It was just to quell her ache for Bonnie and the lost baby, not a genuine affection, but it had sustained her. For days she had showered them in false affection just to make her hurting stop, before she started to acknowledge how much they loved and genuinely adored her. It hadn't been easy though, even though they were starving for her affection, they had been wary.

She remembered Wade's suspicions when she started to show him affection, their daily trips to the book store to buy him supplies and books. He wanted to go to Harvard and become a lawyer, he had said once. Scarlett had not agreed then, but hearing his bright mind discuss lessons she did not remember from years past, she quickly retracted her former disapproval.

She remembered how Ella would cling to her pathetically, a look in her eyes that called out to what little mothering skills she actually possessed. All the girl wanted was love, she realized shamefully. Ella never asked for anything but to be held and kissed goodnight. In turn, Scarlett had tried to make up for six years of apathetic mothering by showering her daughter in love, toys, and stories.

Guilt and shame threatened to swallow her when she thought of how her children had suffered under her hand. She would not think of that now, though. She could only make it better from here on. And she would, she vowed, she would do it in honor of Melly. They won't be in want of a mother anymore, Melly, I swear to you.

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Approaching the train station, she noticed its deserted and empty state. There was a couple, young and obviously newlyweds holding hands and smiling at each other, oblivious to the surroundings. There was an elderly man who was traveling alone and a small family of squalling children, but it was nothing compared to the usual cacophony of noise and activity.

Steam, the noisy sound of tracks upon steel wheels, the high pitched whistle and grating noise of a halt made Scarlett wince in agony, her head pounding from the amount of brandy she had consumed the night before.

Her children spilled off the train, moments later, eager to stretch their legs. When they looked ahead and saw her, they shrieked in delight. They had not expected her to come for them personally; even Uncle Rhett did not do such things! Ella's rapturous little voice called out to her in giddiness.

"Mother!"

As Scarlett looked ahead to see her running children, enthusiastic to see their mother, she studied them for a moment.

Wade, just barely ten years old, was quite tall for his age. His face was shaped well, almost aristocratic. He held his mother's fair skin and thinner build. His nose was solely his father's, but his cheekbones looked like Melanie's. His brown hair was Ellen O'Hara's. His plain eyes were shaped as Scarlett's were, and narrowed or widened in her very likeness.

Ella, who had celebrated her sixth birthday only three weeks before, had not yet outgrown her rambunctious attitudes that came with being five years old. Her hair was Frank's ginger hue. Her frame was pale and petite, which suited her very well. Her eyes, though Frank's in shape, were an astounding shade of green, more pure then Scarlett's own. Her eyes would attract more suitors then she would know what to do with, Scarlett mused proudly. Ella was not gorgeous, not like Bonnie had been. But she was striking and sweet in her own ways. She had outgrown the ugliness of her younger years, to be sure.

She knelt down and opened her arms to her children, enfolding them into a tight embrace. Several members of the Old Guard walking by, on their way to Church, the market, the bank, to call on each other, stopped to watch Scarlett with her remaining children.

It was a very public place after all, they could not have possibly been accused of snooping, no indeed, and it was public property! Falling over each other, they tried to look as if they were simply going about their business.

"Is Scarlett O'Hara really kissing her children?" They asked each other.

"For show," they hurried to assure each other, "see," they pointed, "she's seen us now. It's only for show!"

Yes, Scarlett had seen them. And her glare was so unnerving they all looked away and hurried along. Her eyes were unnatural in their fury, they practically glowed!

"Wade, Ella," she addressed them separately, giving each a kiss on the forehead, "Mother has something she needs to tell you and you're going to be mighty sad."

Scarlett took a shuddering breath and told them that their Aunt Melly was in heaven.

Ella had nearly bowled Scarlett over, as she threw herself into her mother's arms. Scarlett's wan frame swooned precariously, before she righted herself, meeting her son's teary eyes. Shifting Ella, she opened another arm to Wade. He sought comfort in her, and one of her hands rubbed his shaking shoulders, murmuring indistinct comforts.

Mammy silently approached and did not even seem to notice the hot tear that cascaded down her cheek at the unspoken news; she had known that Melanie was dying since the telegram arrived. Perhaps before, Mammy knew things Scarlett had never even heard whispers of, weeks before anyone else found out.

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Scarlett didn't know how much time had passed until her carriage pulled up in front of the Hamilton House where Aunt Pitty lived with India, and where Ashley and Beau were staying at the moment.

"Mammy, you go on into the kitchen and see if you can do anything for Pitty, would you?"

At Mammy's assent, Scarlett and her children entered the parlor.

Ella was on her hip, and she was holding Wade's hand with her left hand, their fingers were interlaced. They exchanged a sorrowful look, and she squeezed his hand, hoping to provide reassurance.

Ashley was there. He looked gray. Of course, Ashley had always looked rather gray, ever since the war that was. His temples were streaked liberally with ivory, gray somehow being beneath his golden locks. His eyes, dove gray, (a curious expression, for dove's were not gray), were red-rimmed and squinting at a cameo of Melanie, her lovely heart-shaped face smiling in a benevolent manner.

He turned to them for a moment and stood up, ever the gentlemen.

Pulling her tear-stained face out of the crook of her mother's neck, Ella made her way over to Ashley, tugging on his jacket sleeve and speaking with her little voice.

"I'm sorry about Aunt Melly, Uncle Ashley."

Ashley seemed to crumple and kneeling down, he scooped his not-quite niece and goddaughter into his arms, weeping softly into her hair. She seemed to hiccup with a sob or two of her own and then buried her head in his neck, wailing. Everyone stood there for a moment, lost in grief.

And then, there was a knock at the door. However much his face looked like Ashley, Scarlett's heart tore into myriad pieces as she recognized Melly all over Beau. He rubbed his eyes adoringly and gazed up blearily at her.

She looked at him for a moment and recalled that no one had told him. She then realized, her purpose for coming over to the house and felt pangs of empathy for her nephew.

She motioned to Wade to follow her, deliberating on the best way to tell the boy that his mother was dead. Going up to the playroom, she had stammered, stuttered, her words breaking before finally she just told him and held him while he cried, rubbing soothing circles onto his back as she let him wail for his mother.

Her eyes locked with Wade's the entire time and she opened another arm to him, horrified that her boys had to deal with another loss. It wasn't long before Ella and Ashley, Ashley still cradling her, appeared at the doorway.

There were no words spoken, but the brotherly peck upon her forehead spoke for them. Words were not needed at a time like this.

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When she had left the room she had seen Beau run into his father's arms, crying like a boy smaller then he was. Scarlett could remember the day he was born like no other day in her life.

Melly had been bleeding, oh God! There had been so much blood, she had put on a brave face, but she felt like vomiting, watching Ashley's child do this to Melly, she remembered vaguely being thankful that Charles had not caused her this much pain when he had given her Wade.

She felt a rush of phantom pain run through her and shuddered for a moment, nearly waking Ella, wobbling unsteadily on her feet. She saw white dots sprinkle at the edge of her consciousness and felt a firm arm around her waist, and looked down, seeing Wade.

His brown eyes were curiously bright, his hair tousled, his face blotchy from trying to suppress his crying, and she absently thought he had never looked more handsome.

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Scarlett would never remember how she got home that day. She remembered Wade helping her shuffle into the house, still cradling her daughter, as she marched steadily, hunched over, past the nursery on the second floor, pausing only to grab her children's night things. Ordering Prissy to follow her with the things, she walked straight to her room, keeping a firm hold on Wade's hand, even when he looked up at her, questions in his eyes.

She did remember, however, waking up, nestled between her son and daughter. It wasn't immensely comfortable or gratifying, she discovered. Wade was a dead weight on her left arm, and she felt tingling sensations just starting to return to her fingers. Ella was practically on top of her and she coughed on a mouthful of her daughter's copper tresses. Yet she did move them closer into the crooks over her arm and continue to lie there, gazing up at her molded ceiling, thinking about everything and nothing under the sun.

It was then, a sharp knock resounded on her door and a warm, low voice cried out softly.

"Ah's gots da break'est ready, mah lamb, may yo' ol' Mammy come on in?"

Scarlett murmured her affirmative quietly, but Mammy heard nonetheless.

There was a rustle of skirts as a tray was wheeled in, pushed by Mammy. Her warm black eyes were crinkled in a smile as she watched Scarlett carefully detach her arms from her children. She pushed the tray up to the bed and left it there, slowly walking out. Scarlett got a glimpse of a red petticoat swirling under a sea of black and white skirts and bustles and smiled sadly, feeling with a sharp jolt, the absence of Rhett even more.

Shaking her head as if she could physically banish the thought from her mind, she turned to wake up her children. She turned over to her left, placing a hand on her son's head, moving the brown curls away from his eyes, noting that it was time for a haircut and gently patting his cheek awake, whispering his name.

"Wade, Wade Hampton! Wake up or your breakfast will get cold!"

He opened his eyes then, every bit the growing boy he was, perking up at the mention of food. She gazed at him for a minute and then turned over to wake up her daughter. Ella's ginger hair was in complete disarray, arranged around her barely sun kissed face like the mane of a lion. Her little mouth was open, a small trail of drool slowly escaping its corner. Her breath rattled in through a snore, and Scarlett heard Wade give a little giggle. She herself felt one corner of her mouth go up in smile and shook Ella awake, watching as she seemed to start and redden when she realized she had been drooling again.

"Good morning Ella! Would you and Wade like to have your breakfast with Mother this morning?"

At Ella's eager response, her scrambling to sit up, adjust her nightgown, which Scarlett has so meticulously dressed her in the night before, and keen eyes, Scarlett let out a giggle, clapping her hand to her mouth in utter delight. Her daughter was adorable. She had never understood why people had fawned so much over her, even with her ape-like newborn features. But the girl was so painfully cute; Scarlett didn't know how she had not realized it before.

Wade impatiently tugged his mother's arm, jolting her into action. She quickly reached over and arranged the breakfast trays over her lap, watching as her children tucked into their meal ravenously, as only children could. Yet, they retained the manners Melly and Scarlett had instilled in them from day one. And then, the aching pain that accompanied Melly's name, muted slightly hit and Scarlett felt her good mood evaporate.

Today was Melly's funeral. How could she have forgotten?

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It was raining outside.

Pouring actually, a horrible and fitting day for such an occasion; fitting because it seemed the heavens mourned too, raining down their sorrows upon the fresh earth. But it was horrible because Melly would not have wanted sorrow and tears, only joy that she was reunited with her God. Melly would have hated it, all of it. Scarlett thought knowingly. She had wanted Scarlett to take care of the funeral. But Scarlett had relapsed days later, her ribs aching from something that had nothing to do with the fall.

After Rhett had left, she had lain at the bottom of the stairs, her cheek to the cool marble, and let her tears fall, her body wracking with the force of her silent grief. She could have cried an eighth sea for how long she had lain there until Pork and Mammy had found her. Her limp body had been cradled in old Pork's arms as her head lolled uselessly over her shoulder, her eyes, though open, were taking in nothing of her surroundings. Her breaths were great and terrible things, shuddering, hiccupping and she remembered being thankful that the children were not there. She had swatted away the hands that had tried to undress her. She had screamed with a hoarse voice for them to leave her and she had listened as Pork's footsteps had retreated, yet Mammy's did not falter away from the bed. There was a hand on her cheek then, a warm and calloused one, and she had leaned into it, crying desperately into to her pillow, her hands, then Mammy's comforting bosom, letting her head rest on the woman's steady heartbeat. That's how she woke then, lying there, stiff and uncomfortable, her cheeks cracking as she moved them in a yawn, dried tears coating them expertly.

The rain continued to pour and Scarlett stood ostracized by the other mourners her children clasped to her on either side, under a large black umbrella that Scarlett's arm shook with the effort of holding steady. Prissy was behind them, quietly sniveling.

The sermon was awful. That man didn't know Melly, not really. He knew the front that she put on, a genteel not wholly untrue front, but a front nonetheless. He and the other mourners, except possibly Ashley didn't really know Melly. They knew the kind woman who headed up charity organizations, who always had time for everyone, who never spoke a harsh word to anyone.

They didn't know the woman who wanted Scarlett to be a mother to her son if she should die, the woman who had bravely kept herself alive while Sherman burnt Atlanta around her, the woman who had kept her eyes wide open as the carriage bumped by the ruins of Twelve Oaks and did not cry, the woman who bravely picked cotton when she could barely walk when Scarlett's own darkies would not, the woman who had cleaned up a murder, the woman who had charged at the filthy varmint of a Yankee with her dead brother's saber in her pale, clammy, and shaking hands, ready to fight to her death, the woman who thanked Belle Watling, a common prostitute for the life of her husband in the middle of a crowded street, full of judging eyes. No, none of them knew Melly, she thought, shaking her head ruefully.

It was time then, and Scarlett could hear little Beau's sobs as the clods of earth were prepared to be thrown. Innumerable women and men in drab shades of faded, crisp, and polished black circled him in a way that she almost thought malevolent, comparable to the Three Witches in some old Shakespeare work that she had long since forgotten. She almost cried out, but only almost. She drew her children closer, handing Prissy the umbrella as she pressed their heads into her chest covering their ears with shaking, wan hands, gloved in nothing, and goose pimples rising in ill omen.

She could hear her nephew's cries and she muttered almost feverishly, "Cover his ears, cover his ears, oh! Ashley, cover your boy's ears! Don't let him hear! Cover his ears!"

With strength that was inexplicable, she cradled both her children in her arms; kissing their brows and making sure their ears were covered. And the clods of brown earth hit the wood of the coffin with dull thuds that echoed like gunfire in her mind. Yet she kept her hands on her children's ears, desperately trying to save them from something as ridiculous, but painful, God it was painful, as a sound.

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